Dearest Daughters,
Babies are my Achilles' heel. Newborn babies? My kryptonite.
The smell of their fuzz ball heads. That instinctive grasp that my Labor and Delivery course instructor explained is strong enough for a baby to pull itself up to its mother's chest after birth. Which made me feel better, you know, in case I gave birth alone on a jungle floor and had malaria. I could die knowing my newborn could feed itself.
Mostly, newborns get to me, because of their symbolism.
They're scientifically nothing more than a blob of big-headed, undeveloped DNA, unfit for solitary survival.
But, don't tell a parent that. Or me.
Babies--desired, unplanned, unwanted, struggled to conceive or otherwise acquired--are new life, another chance, a blank slate, an imagination to fill and hopes to realize. A gamble, a bet, an investment.
In those first days, eyes adjusting, mouth searching, we feel they need us.
But, it's them we need.
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